𝑻𝑯𝑬 𝑷𝑯𝑨𝑵𝑻𝑶𝑴 𝑶𝑭 𝑩𝑳𝑶𝑶𝑫 (𝑯𝒂𝒏𝒏𝒊𝒈𝒓𝒂𝒎)

Chapter Nine

Moments into being exposed to the attentions of the many people that watched him, Will considered that perhaps he wasn't suited to perform.

He stumbled forward, vaguely noting a piano's distant off-keys and the whispers of those around him. Will wasn't sure at which point he'd started to feel lightheaded. He had so suddenly become aware of the crowd that surrounded him, — suddenly aware of their expectations, the scrutiny he'd face if he didn't fulfill them all. Will had been given an opportunity. He was finally in a position to be recognised for his worth like never before, and yet it felt so overwhelmingly… different, to what he'd always imagined.

He couldn't do this… he couldn't.

Will had dreamt of recognition, a spotlight to revel in. Now that he'd come so terribly close to having it, he felt nothing but nerves and a fear of failure that he had never before contemplated from the safety of his imagination. Reality, as cruel as it often was, left Will to feel as though he was being circled by vultures. He braced himself not for success, but for butchery. As irrational as it was he feared to soon be torn apart.

Perhaps the Opera ghost would fulfill those beliefs, if Will wasn't good enough.

Will squinted as he looked up. The spotlight he'd previously basked in while alone now pained his eyes. Cold and unfeeling, it only served to draw more attention to him. It burned through his irises in a blinding haze of white, and Will wanted nothing more than to retreat to the shadows and hide from it all.

He could feel the heavy pulse of his heartbeat. It thrummed, erratic, like a fluttering bird caged inside of his throat. With it he had no way of speaking, surely not. The simple act of breathing seemed to be causing him to drown. Like blood pouring down his airway, though his throat was not yet cut. Will's mouth was dry, voice likely broken. He wouldn't speak, wouldn't sing, he couldn't.

He couldn't.

Will was almost certain that he was being spoken to. —Or perhaps what he heard were the starting notes of his aria, he couldn't tell. He heard not melodies to give himself to in song, but a shrill and monotonous sound that pierced through his ears like a double pointed sword. Through it Will couldn't distinguish a single word or musical note, murmur or flourish. There was nothing but that dreadful noise to fill his ears.

The noise increased as did his desperate breaths. His focus on breathing wouldn't allow him to try to keep his composure. He feared he might asphyxiate. He'd truly begun to panic, Will realised. Could the others see the extent of his distress? He was familiar with them all, the girls in the corps de ballet, and yet he couldn't distinguish a single face amongst the many.

All of them seemed to blur, ghoulishly pale due to the imposing spotlight. A fog of absent features, strangers, ghosts. His surroundings started to spin around him, and this only disoriented Will further. He closed his eyes, praying for this feeling to pass while fearing that it never would.

Will found that with his eyes closed the painfully bright lights didn't blind him as much as they had before. It was a small relief, but as small as it was it couldn't possibly slow the growing turbulence inside of him. Anxiety continued to tighten its grasp around Will, and as much as he tried he couldn't catch his breath. Vaguely, he heard a voice behind him. It was distinct, and he could've sworn to have heard it calling his name. There, somewhere near and far around him.

"Will! …Will? Over here! Will!"

Immediately following the voice he'd heard, Will was pulled back, stumbling away from his audience before he could so much as open his eyes to find out who had called. He didn't need to now, of course. It was Beverly. She had dragged him into the backstage at the expense of his shirt collar, which had stretched as a consequence of her hold.